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"What, we're going now?" Calgar felt concern for the first time. Maybe they should have practiced instead of watching Battle of the Bulbs.
"Sir, we've spent the last four hours getting our gear ready for this precise moment," Dick said. "You actually helped polish Nugget. This whole thing was your idea! What did you think was going to happen?"
"I thought today was the fething stage show before dinner!"
"No," Dick spluttered, "this is the stage show before the fragging Nutcase Death Run!"

FOOL RUNNINGS

The 2019 Barmy Army Xmas Special by NoPoet

Chaos has been defeated.

Marneus Calgar finally did it: he repulsed the legions of Chaos (quite literally), restored the magic of Christmas and brought the Word Bearers Legion back into the Emperor's Light. As a gesture of goodwill, the newly-renamed Gift Bearers are invited to compete in Macragge's Christmas sledge race, alongside the Emperor's Stripes, the Battle Sisters and Calgar's own intrepid team. There are just two unfortunate issues: the race is informally known as the Nutcase Death Run, and this is its 666th year.

Gasp in shock as the horribly under-prepared Ultras face humiliation at every turn. Coo in delight as teams crash so hard their bodies explode. Burn with righteous fury as this challenging and insulting farce tests your mettle. Will the Ultramarines retain the coveted Sprout Cup, or will this be the Barmy Army's last ride?

=|U|=

About Marneus Calgar's Barmy Army



=|U|=

NOTE ABOUT THE POLL: These Barmy Army stories take a huge effort to write and edit, so your honesty will be greatly appreciated; stop me if I'm wasting everyone's time, or encourage me if you want me to keep at it! EDIT: I had to re-post the whole thread because I voted for myself NOT to continue, that'll teach me not to unfairly influence a poll!!

=|U|=

FOOL RUNNINGS

It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth, grinding to afford a yatch in GTA Online. He is the Master of Mankind Womankind Peoplekind by the will of the gods (so the Chaos Gods wanted him in charge then? interesting), and will remain the master of a million worlds until he is retconned to be female and rises from the Golden Throne to announce a new era of peace and prosperity in the reboot no-one wants.

There is no peace among the stars, especially when Lord Calgar has "The Best Christmas Album in the World – Ever" playing on constant repeat. Forget the iron grip of political correctness, for in the Imperium, all are equally worthless. Forget the false assurance of media bias, for in the grim dark future there is only farce.

=|[U]|=

Ultramarine HQ

'Twas the week before Christmas, and all through Smurf HQ, not a creature was stirring – except for the Ultramarine 1st Company Honour Guard, racing in full battlegear to the personal quarters of their Spiritual Liege.

Dick Bannerman, the banner man, led Chaplain Derrick, Apothecary Mender, no less than six Company Commanders and two human soldiers. Never had they heard their lord crying out in such anguish, such dismay, such torment, not even in the last ten minutes of Game of Thrones. This was not looking to be a merry Christmas.

Bannerman wielded the sacred Plunger of Ultramar. Brin Milo and Nessa Bourah of the Tanith First-and-Only clutched toilet rolls that had been stored in a fridge. These were mere precautions though: it sounded not like the Master of Ultramar was on the toilet, but as though he were being murdered by a Tyranid bio-assassin.

"OoooaaaAAAAAH!" screamed the Chapter Master. His cries of anguish rolled along miles of corridors and shook baubles from many Christmas trees. Even a small avalanche was started outside the building. Servo-skulls decorated with tinsel swerved this way and that, searching for threats.

"NOOOO! HELP ME!" A new, frenzied edge of fear was evident in the screaming, an emotion no Space Marine should ever vocalise. Milo's morale broke and he winked out of existence, since that's what apparently happens in 8th ed. Chaplain Derrick bellowed gruff prayers for the Chapter Master's salvation.

"PLEASE!" The next sentence was punctuated by sobbing. "NO MORE! I CAN'T STAND IT!"

"Good God-Emperor, what is he going through?" hissed Apothecary Mender. "Out of the way, people!"

Chapter serfs pressed themselves against walls to allow their masters through. Everyone was scared and confused. Christmas decorations rattled with each bellow; the smiles of angels and Santas seemed to mock the terrified Ultramarines.

They reached the Chapter Master's chambers, which looked like Santa's grotto. A large poster of Home Alone 2 was disconcertingly pinned to the ceiling above Calgar's bed, and the holy Home Alone 2 DVD itself – recently purchased by Brin Milo – was propped up against a Father Christmas on Flying Sleigh alarm clock. A post-it note had been stuck on the DVD case saying "Fair Warning, if we don't watch this film this year I'm summoning Skarbrand". There was also a poster of a monkey sitting on a toilet, a priceless relic from the 2nd Millennium which calmed Calgar down. The Chapter Master himself was nowhere to be found. Even his personal ablutions chamber was empty for once.

"Nary a Christmas pudding to be seen," said Dick, looking into the toilet bowl.

"AAAAARGH! NO MORE! I SURRENDER!" The scream came from a room at the edge of Calgar's quarters.

"That's his private office," Dick said. The Ultras practically fell over themselves to get there, but Mender made them pause.

"Wait!" the Apothecary said. "What if he's in there... you know...?"

"What?" said Dick.

"You know, abusing himself."

"It will make a change from everyone else abusing him."

"I mean, what if he's knocking one out? The dirty bugger!"

Dick paled considerably. "It is too hideous to contemplate," he said. "Who among us could live with seeing that?"

"It is a risk I am willing to accept!" Chaplain Derrick snarled. He shoulder-barged his way into the room. Dick was right behind him holding the Plunger like a quarterstaff. The others followed, most keeping their eyes closed.

Marneus Calgar, Lord of the Ultramarines and role model for the whole universe, let out a terrified yelp and went flying backwards over his wheeled office chair.

"What the feth are you lot doing?" he yelled, climbing to his feet. "You nearly made me soil the Undercrackers of Ultramar! They once belonged to the Primarch, which may be why there's an unfortunate amount of room at the front."

"What the feth are we doing?" Bannerman said, emotion overriding respect. "We thought fragging Deathleaper was in here with you! What are you doing?"

"Reading Battle for the Abyss," said Calgar.

Dick's fingers clenched and unclenched along the Plunger of Ultramar.

"Why are you carrying that?" said Calgar.

"So I can do this," said Dick.

=|U|=

The Plan

Calgar and his senior commanders assembled in the briefing room. Milo and Bourah were also present. They had been around for so long, and Calgar had accidentally divulged so many Chapter secrets, that there wasn't any point excluding them. The Tanith troopers' eyes were drawn to the round, red sucker mark in the centre of Calgar's forehead. It had taken one siege dreadnought to hold the bellowing Chapter Master, and another to yank the Plunger of Macragge, before the fething thing had come off with a pop that shattered windows.

The Ultramarine elite politely ignored the sucker mark and looked instead at Calgar's new archaeotech installed on the far wall.

"It's called a blackboard," Calgar explained. The senior staff could barely hear him because he had Michael Buble's Christmas album playing at full blast in the background. "There are multiple panels on a roller. You write on them with a substance called chalk. Now this is where the patient readers – both of them, one of whom is also the author – can be introduced to the plot."

He wrote "BOBSLAY TEAM" in massive letters, filling the whole panel.

"Oh, no," Dick said with such dread the air turned cold.

"Oh, yes," Calgar said. He glanced around for the board brush, but it had gone AWOL, so he pulled the board down to reveal the second panel. Someone had done an elaborate chalk drawing of Calgar's face on it. The caricature was bruised and grinning with broken teeth.

"What's this crap?" Calgar said, reading the legend written beneath it. "Lord Flat-Head After His Weekly Beatings? Who's Lord Flat-Head?"

He glanced at his command staff, whose faces remained suspiciously straight, then pulled the board down again. The third panel was empty. He wrote PLAN OF ACTIUN.

"Sir, I don't think we should -" Dick started to say.

"Just a minute," Calgar said, grabbing at his own backside. "The Undercrackers of Ultramar have gone up my cleft. Third time today, wish I'd never worn the fething things. What were you saying again?"

"My Lord," Chaplain Derrick interrupted, "why do you persist in wearing them? Perhaps it's time to accept that you're not proportioned like the Primarch."

"Funny, your mother said the exact opposite on Valentine's Day."

"Why would anyone wear someone else's underpants?" said Bourah.

Milo couldn't tear his eyes away from the red circle on Calgar's forehead.

"Sir," he squeaked, "what's all this about a bobsleigh team?"

"A good question at last. Technically it's a sledge race, not a bobsleigh race. The difference is – er – well – anyway, we're doing it this year."

"But why?" said Dick.

"Would you rather be fighting Chaos and Tyranids?"

"Yes! We'd have a better chance of living! You do realise that most people who enter this race are killed?"

"Humbug," Calgar said, pointing at Dick.

"Sir, I'm not -"

"Humbug. Come on everyone, join your Chapter Master. Humbug."

"Humbug," everyone said reluctantly, pointing at Dick.

"Aw, fething hell," said Dick.

"Have a holly jolly Christmas!" Michael Buble crooned loud enough to shake the walls.

Calgar grabbed the blackboard and pulled down hard. He found it very amusing to see the panels blur. Unfortunately they came to a stop on the picture of his battered face.

"What are the rules?" Bourah said.

"Well the rules," said Calgar, "which should be obvious to anyone with brains larger than a black-eyed pea, are to ride a sledge down a hill."

"Sounds simple enough," Bourah said.

"Enough talk," Calgar said. "This isn't literature, it's 40K. Just one thing before we go: this year we MUST watch Home Alone 2. It's been so long I'm beginning to doubt the fething film exists. I'm making it your responsibility, Milo. Last year you got a Land Raider up your ring for failing me, this year it'll be an Ordinatus."

Milo gulped. He still struggled to sit properly.

"Now let's get going before NoPoet is banned for posting such crap." Calgar led his warriors to their destiny.

(To be continued...)

Preparing the sledge

"Well that's ruined my Christmas," said Dick, turning away from the sledge Milo had brought.

Calgar and his commanders gawped at it.

"What – how – I – " Calgar stammered.

"It is perfect," said Chaplain Derrick, eyes glowing through the lenses of his skull helm.

The sledge looked sized for one of Santa's elves. It was made of shiny red plastic. There were no engines or weapons.

"Perfect?" Calgar snorted. "You couldn't fit Kevin McCallister in that! How are four of us going to get in?"

"You didn't give me enough points to buy anything proper. I had to get what I could afford."

"You fething wally, it isn't even blue." Calgar inspected the tag which was still attached. "Fun for children aged two to six."

"Milo does have a point, my Lord," said Dick. "When I suggested that we're meant to be the most balanced Chapter and should allocate our spending for all contingencies, you said – and I quote – 'If I want to hear the raving of a leftist commie, I'll watch BBC News'."

Calgar blinked. "That was quite a good impression of me."

"That's funny," said Milo, "I thought it was supposed to be a constipated gretchin."

"Right, nerve-glove for both of you," Calgar said, "pain level: the Post Ops delivery mission from GTA Online. Just thank the Emperor it's Christmas, or you'd have got the the Dune buggy mission."

After Milo and Dick had served their punishment, Calgar decided he would lead the two of them along with First Chaplain Derrick – to victory. Or, quite possibly – to defeat.

=|U|=

The Pre-Race Nonsense

Mount Hera was not only ginormously tall, it was absolutely freezing at the top.

"What's the matter?" Dick said to Milo, who was shivering ferociously.

"I've got the chills."

"Are they multiplying?" said Calgar.

The sledge race was hugely popular and thousands of serfs and civilians thronged the event. Milo stared unhappily down the chutes. There were four of them. Each team would launch at the same time, one team per chute. The four teams were kept seperate initially to avoid a mobile rugby scrum with less dignity than an Ork leadership contest; this event would be broadcast across Ultramar and contestants had to look their best before they crashed so hard they exploded. It was a feth of a long way down. No wonder Dick didn't want to do it.

Calgar snapped Milo out of his morbid reverie.

"What are we going to call ourselves?"

"Something festive, like Team Culkin?" said Milo.

"Team Culkin!" snorted Calgar. "More like Team Shut Up Milo."

"What about Team Death to the Infidel?" suggested Derrick.

"I thought we might choose something simple and dignified, such as Team Ultramar," said Dick.

"If that's the best you lot have got," said Calgar, "you're never naming anything ever. We're the Christmas Warriors."

"Christmas Warriors!" said Milo. "We can't call ourselves that in public, we'll look a right bunch of fart-arses."

"Oh, here we go, the Grinch strikes again. Who's the Chapter Master?"

"You are, sir."

"Who's the weedy little git?"

"That would be me, sir."

"Good. We're the fething Christmas Warriors and that's that. Go and sign us up."

Milo went to the registration desk without any intention of calling his team the Christmas Warriors. The desk was manned by a podgy fellow with a thick black moustache, a mop of black hair and red dungarees. He addressed Milo before the Tanith tree-rat could speak.

"Do you know who I'm looking for?"

"Princess Peach?" said Milo.

"No. I'm looking for the one person who'll take this bloody race seriously."

"Good luck," Milo said. "This is a Barmy Army story, not Rocky 3."

"Your funeral, mate. Team name?"

Milo glanced at the team roster. It was upside down and hard to read as all the team names had been repeatedly crossed out and changed. Apparently Milo wasn't the only one planning some hilarious seasonal sabotage. Calgar's team were currently listed as "The Buttmunch Bunch". "Lily-Livered Imperial Whelps" and "Sexist Masters of Self-Love" had been scrawled out.

What team name – that could be plausibly blamed on someone else – would sum up the depth of feeling Milo had for Calgar?

Milo thunk.

(To be continued...)

Presenting the Teams

The Ultramarines waited nervously backstage as the teams were called out one by one. Calgar's team wore blue tabards with SOUL OF A LION on the front; Calgar's had a piece of paper sellotaped to the back with BREATH OF A ZOMBIE scrawled in black marker.

The commentator's voice boomed from vox-units positioned around the course.

"Goooood evening, my name's Bob Whitesmile and I'll be your commentator for the 666th Christmas Race. Now before we get started, I must explain two things: people have pointed out that my name is Bob and I'm commentating on a Sled race, but since this is actually a Sledge race, the reindeer-poop is on your faces, people. Second, keeping track of which team is which will be tough since they gave each other stupid names."

The Gift Bearers came out first. Someone had bribed the contest organisers to play My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, an ironic choice in light of the crowd's reaction to the former traitors. The Gift Bearers sledge, which had the name Big Red painted on both sides, was a replica of Santa's sleigh, bulging with presents. The presents were fake. Old habits died hard and Third Chaplain Amalgama wouldn't demean himself by offering charity to Imperial pigs.

"Welcomed back to the Imperium after ten thousand years as idolators living in their own stink, and looking to overcome the shame of being the only Legion whose efforts in the Great Crusade were branded 'crap': Team one, the Turd Cradlers!"

"BOO!" yelled the crowd. "Death to the traitors!"

"Turd Cradlers?" Amalgama glowered at his second, Brother Syster. "What happened to the name Santa's Little Helpers? Why aren't the plebs glowing with joy? And what's with the fething music?"

"We are the only team without Imperial money to bribe the officials, my lord. In fairness to the scum of Ultramar, we did bombard their worlds and nearly kill their Primarch. A lack of Christmas cheer was anticipated."

It was also mutual.

"How dare you fething ingrates hate us?" Amalgama yelled at the cilivians, ducking a beetroot that was flung at his head. "At least we don't smell like Skavenblight!"

"Now there's finding the positive in a situation," Whitesmile said. "Would the crowd please remember this is a charitable event. Fruit and veg should be donated to the needy, not hurled at contenders."

There was a clamour on stage as the second team came out before anyone asked them to.

"And now," Whitesmile announced as if he'd expected it, "here to prove that money isn't everything but you should have it anyway, graduates of the University of Diversity, team two: the Emperor's Stripes Chapter! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, twerk your booties for Team W'ankus Y'ankus!"

The Stripes were dressed like Apollo Creed before his fight in Rocky 4. They danced to a generic rock song called Panama which deafened the crowd at 175 decibels, while can-can girls in glittering silver showed as much leg and crotch as possible in aid of women's rights. As befitted the Chapter who had more points than the rest of the Imperium combined, the Stripes sledge – which could more accurately be described as a chariot of the gods – looked like it came from the Golden Age of Technology. It had rocket boosters and assault cannon sponsons. The name Freedom Through Firepower was etched on it. Its original name, Rosemary, had been painted over, as it wasn't deemed hard enough for such a mighty Chapter (actually a pressure group on their homeworld had complained about their "grossly inappropriate act of misogyny akin to femicide" by giving it a girl's name).

"Good morning Macragge!" Chapter Master Gluteus Maximus boomed.

"Feth off!" yelled the crowd. They were peasants who spent all day working the harsh land of Macragge and weren't in the mood to have someone else's money flashed in their faces, although they were quite enjoying the leg and boob show.

Maximus and his men were devastated. They wept and hugged one another like Modern Men. Just as they were about to "use their words" and talk about their feelings, they noticed a distinct lack of diversity among the crowd which included "too many citizens of Macragge" and "a 4:1 ratio of men to women". The Emperor's Stripes made immediate, furious social media posts on their iPhones, triggering a Leftist rage that would culminate in the birth of the Ruinstorm.

"And thirdly," the commentator said, having to raise his voice over the crowd for the first time, "and thirdly, but by no means last, for Emperor help us if we made them come out fourth, we have the Order of the Bloody Rag, the Bolter Babes themselves, the Sisters Sororita! Ladies and gentlemen and non-specific persons, it's Team Venus Extravaganza!"

A quartet of black-armoured Battle Sisters came out with all the dignity they could muster, to the tune of Maneater by Nelly Furtado. The crowd dared not boo them due to equality laws ("If said person does not earn your respect, lo shall they sue you for it"). So the noble Sisters stood there in silence with narrowed mouths and eyes full of thunder while a team of arco-flagellants dragged their sledge on-stage and a demeaning song made them look like slags.

You can well imagine what a Sororita sledge looked like. Yes, it did have a massive fleur de lis on its nose. Yes, it did have the pipes of a fething church organ protruding like stakes in a defensive wall. No, the Sisters had not named it The Castrator; that name had been crudely daubed on by a heretic. The sledge had originally been called Sage.

"I'm reliably informed," the commentator said, sounding strained, "that it's the Order of the Bloody Rose, and that's what it says on my data-slate. I must apologise and say that I honestly don't know what I was thinking about."

Backstage, nervous sweat poured down Calgar's back into his buttock crevice.

"Are we ever gonna get called?" he said. "My trousers are turning into the Hoover Dam."

"From the desecration of majesty occurring out there, my lord," said Dick, "I think it's better we stay in here."

"Bum-sweat be damned," added Milo.

Unfortunately, Bob Whitesmile had other ideas.

"They're last in line and most likely last in your hearts; honourary holders of the Sprout Cup by Lord Calgar's decree, even though the Ultramarines have never actually won it. Ladies and gentlemen, and those who don't feel like being either today, please put your hands together and hang onto your vegetables for Team Fat Bastard!"

"Team Fat Bastard?" said Calgar. "Why are we named after Milo's mum?"

The Ultramarines were genuinely cheered as they came out to the Captain Caveman theme. Our heroes beamed with pride and waved, not realising that the crowd were only there to see Calgar disappearing towards the other side of the planet at 200mph.

Milo pulled their tiny red sledge onto which he had painted the ironic name Nugget, although upon seeing the other sledges, it didn't seem so ironic after all.

"For this special event, our Ultramarine Lords saw fit to reject tactical logic and borrow their ride from a little girl," the commentator commented. "Now which page of the Codex Astartes is that from?"

The crowd began to laugh. So too did the other contenders.

"Look at it!" Third Chaplain Amalgama was bent almost double with mirth. "What's the matter, Girlyman's whores? Spent all your points on hookers and drugs?"

"Sir, they've read your Christmas list," said Dick.

"That's funny," Calgar yelled back, "it reminds me of when your Primarch made ours look a prat in front of his whole Legion. Oh wait."

"Cursed spawn of Guilliman, get stuffed!" Amalgama yelled with a shake of his fist, unable to think of anything clever.

"Could you both pleashe conduct yourshelves with shum dignity?" Sister Superior Ultricia said. Her mouth was disfigured by a slap from a Death Guard power fist and she wore very obvious metal braces to hold her teeth in.

"Jeez, Calgar," said Gluteus Maximus of the Emperor's Stripes, "I always said you were a candy-assed son of a bitch. Just hand over the Sprout Cup now and we won't have to embarrass your ass, Goddammit."

"Can someone translate?" said Calgar. "I don't speak Vandalised Gothic."

"All teams," said Bob Whitesmile, "ready your sledges!"

Team Fat Bastard looked at their namesake.

"What, we're going now?" Calgar felt concern for the first time. Maybe they should have practiced instead of watching Battle of the Bulbs.

"Sir, we've spent the last four hours getting our gear ready for this precise moment," Dick said. "You actually helped polish Nugget. This whole thing was your idea! What did you think was going to happen?"

"I thought today was the fething stage show before dinner!"

"No," Dick spluttered, "this is the stage show before the fragging Nutcase Death Run!"

"We could all be dead in five minutes!" said Milo.

"Your cheeks have got bright pink patches on them," Calgar said. "You look like cartoon chipmunks. Should I send you out to detect crimes?"

"The only thing I detect is a stinking mound of Ork-dump," Derrick slavered. "The Ork-dump of cowardice. We need not some silly preparation. The sledge starts at the top and finishes at the bottom, that is all we need to know, all else is heresy. We get in the fething thing, press snugly up against one another, and trust that Primarch and Emperor will protect us."

"Thing is," Milo said, kicking a small mound of snow, "neither of them are actually here, are they?"

"Fething Nugget," Calgar said, looking at his sledge.

(To be continued...)

The Launch

"Teams, take positions!"

"Let's get this over with," said Dick. "See you in the Apothecarion."

Calgar decided that Milo would sit at the front, then Dick, then Derrick, and Calgar would take pride of place at the back.

"Sir, I think you should go at the front," said Dick. "You'll have a more commanding view."

Calgar looked at the almost vertical slope, then back at Dick. He held two fingers up.

"My Lord, this is no time for charades."

Calgar waved his fingers insistently.

"Feth! Ok. Two words."

Calgar tugged his ear and coughed.

"Sounds like... cough." Dick sighed heavily.

"I see we've reached an understanding," said Calgar. "You three get in and let your glorious leader shove off. Milo, you're a wally of the highest degree, don't feth this up."

With those inspiring words, Team Fat Bastard assumed their positions. Calgar stood behind the sledge and grabbed hold of the handles. He glanced around and saw the other teams were ready. He looked back at his own men. It was difficult to tell their preparedness from the backs of their heads, but how hard could a fething sledge ride be?

"Remember gents," he said, "the galaxy is watching, let's do this like professionals."

"Three! Two! One! Engage!"

The sledges began to move and the 666th annual Nutcase Death Run was go. Calgar wasn't good with "numbers and crap like that". He started pushing while the countdown was still on Two, a glaring rules breach, but they didn't get flagged since they were probably about to die. The commentator picked it up, though.

"Team Fat Bastard have suffered a premature launch, a recurring problem for the Chapter Master. He appears to be in some kind of difficulty. Let's go directly to his suit vox."

"Hold on, team!" the Spiritual Liege bellowed through speakers across the 500 worlds. "My pants have gone up my arse again!"

He let go of the sledge to tug at his hindquarters, a mistake only a total prat would make. Nugget and its transhuman cargo rapidly picked up speed. Calgar was forced to run after them, one hand reaching towards his rapidly disappearing team, the other grabbing his own backside.

"Oh, my, not only has Lord Calgar jumped the start, he's chasing his own sledge! This is the first time a participant has done the course on foot. We knew this year was going to be special, but who could predict this!"

"Where are you going you fething muppets!" Calgar called, his voice relayed to eighty trillion Imperial servants. "I'm supposed to be in charge!"

"It's a sledge, there's no fething brakes you big blue Ogryn!" Milo yelled back. He, Dick and Derrick began to scream with terror as their acceleration approached the sound barrier.

Infuriated, Calgar slipped and faceplanted. Momentum carried him down the slope like a human torpedo. BREATH OF A ZOMBIE fluttered against his back like a little cape. Snow and shards of ice were thrown into his face. His cheeks were blown outwards and began to ripple with the force of acceleration. Friction snatched his power-trousers and underwear down to bunch around his feet; they trailed behind him as if he were pursued by the ghost of his own dignity. A great cheer rose from the crowd.

"Mummy, why's he got his pants down?" a little girl could be heard to say.

"Don't look!" her mother replied, turning the child away. "I will pray that you forget this blasphemy!"

"And here I was, thinking Team Fat Bastard couldn't possibly top their own launch for entertainment or novelty, but here's a surprise appearance from Lord Calgar's naked rear end! It's not clear what their strategy is at this point, but accutane would do wonders for those ass cheeks."

"Oh my God-Emperor, we're gonna die!" Milo squealed. Dick put his hands over the young Tanith's eyes. Derrick put his hand over Dick's.

"Chaplain, you are squeezing your legs around me!" Bannerman said. "I can't breathe!"

"It's for your own good!" Derrick hissed.

At turn four, a crowd of citizens watched with excitement and some confusion as the Ultramarine sledge flashed past.

"There's only three people in it," a little boy said to his parents.

"EEEEEEEEEE!" Calgar flew around the corner on his stomach, going so far up the side that he was lucky to stay on the course and not get launched into fething orbit.

"Wow," the little boy gasped, eyes bright with wonder. "He doesn't even need a sledge! When I grow up I want to be just like him!"

As they headed down a straight towards turn five, Milo twisted to look back. Calgar was a roaring blur heading towards them at warp 5.

"Aw feth, he's catching up! Why didn't we put rocket boosters on this thing?"

"He's our glorious – God-Emperor, DUCK!" said Dick.

They'd come to a tunnel. Derrick was tall, and his helmet scraped the roof the entire way though, causing the Chaplain to bellow with pain and fear. Then the tunnel was over and they were on a very long straight. The sun was already beginning to set. Blue and purple clouds drifted over a magnificent winter wonderland. The view would have been glorious if it wasn't coming towards them like Demon's Gate.

"He's our glorious leader," Dick continued. "A Chapter is nothing without its Master, even if he's a ridiculous heffalump."

"Dick, we've only been going for thirty seconds and he's out of the sledge with his trousers off. You want to put the ape in charge of the circus? I'd rather swear the Blood Pact."

They went through turn five. The G-force nearly broke Milo's neck. This course was designed for people wearing power armour, so in a sense it encapsulated modern Warhammer 40,000.

"Milo," Dick said as they slid onto another straight, "we're in a child's sledge, with zero preparation, on a course that regularly kills half the participants. How much worse can it get?"

The sledge began to wobble as if triggered by his words.

"There's bad," said Milo, "there's extremely fething bad, and then there's Marneus Calgar."

Dick craned around, peering past Derrick to where Calgar was not only still gaining on them, but now slowly twirling like a propellor.

"I'm joining the fething Novamarines next year," Dick said. "Derrick, plant your arse, see if you can slow this thing."

Derrick forced his body down with every erg of strength he possessed. The sledge cracked beneath his mighty buttocks, but they began to slow. While the difference was fractional, it was enough for the Chapter Master to draw alongside them. Calgar was still spinning and his team could only catch half of what he said to them, which unfortunately was the swearing half.

As they eventually managed to pull their half-frozen team leader in, Calgar said, "Which idiot named our sledge The Legend of C.S. Goto?"

"No-one," said Milo, "why?"

"Some fether's painted it on the back."

"Oh, splendid," said Dick, "my Christmas is now complete! In January I wrote to Santa asking to hurtle towards my doom with a pervert, a ferret and a bare-bottomed idiot, in a sledge named after a talentless laughing-stock, in front of the 500 Worlds."

"You must have been a good boy this year," said Milo.

Calgar struggled to pull his pants up. The Undercrackers of Ultramar were indeed too big for him: the wind rippled them hard enough to crack against his thighs like a hundred lashes. When he finally sat, the Chapter Master's bulk provided stability to the sledge. However the front end, and Brin Milo, were three feet in the air. The Tanith piper looked like a Rolls-Royce figurehead.

"Team Fat Bastard is finally complete," Bob Whitesmile announced, "and despite their unfair lead, they're about to get overhauled!"

Team Venus Extravaganza went by on their right. Ultricia stared daggers at the Ultras.

"Shishter Shylvia, play the Shonnet of Shame!" she declared. The Sororita team accelerated away while the organ pipes around the back of their sledge blasted discordant noise. Somehow it still sounded better than Milo's bagpipes.

"WHOOOOOO!" Maximus and his Stripes whooped as they flew past on the left, rocket boosters at full thrust. W'ankus Y'ankus chanted the name of their homeworld as they disappeared into the distance. "Murica! Murica!"

The Gift Bearers said nothing, but Third Chaplain Amalgama glowered at Team Fat Bastard from behind his middle finger as he slowly sailed past.

"They're leaving us behind!" said Calgar. "How can you let the Gift Bearers beat us, our Primarch will be turning in his chair!"

"Derrick, stop squeezing me!" Dick said.

Despite being the slowest team by miles, they went into turn eighteen so fast their sledge did a loop-the loop around the enclosed tunnel. Team Fat Bastard shrieked in a single voice. A bubbling quack echoed through the tunnel as Calgar nearly soiled himself. There was no recovery time before a twisting series of corners known as The Corkscrew. They were too busy trying not to fall out, and so missed an announcement from the commentator.

"Aaaaand it looks like new problems for Team Fat Bastard. Apparently Brin Milo's been disqualified because no-one likes him."

Milo had come over all queasy. He gipped, struggling not to puke.

"Oh please no," said Dick, sensing his distress.

The Tanith trooper lost his lunch. It blew back into his own face and into the faces of the Space Marines sitting behind him, who were unfortunately sitting in order of ascending height. The Ultras yelled in horror. Only Derrick, in his skull helm, was spared the taste of bitter orange.

Then someone's mobile phone rang. The tune was an instrumental chorus of Plug In Baby by Muse. Calgar reached into a power-pocket and produced his phone.

"Hello? What do you mean 'Is this Lord Calgar'? No, it's the Emperor's fething cobbler, who do you think?" He listened for a moment. "The Home Alone 2 DVD? You know where it is, I broadcast its location to the whole of Ultramar, it's on my bedside table." A pause. "What do you mean, someone's nicked it?"

Fear hit Brin Milo like a gong.

"Then fething find it!" Calgar screamed. "Mobilise the Chapter! Mobilise the successor Chapters! Wake the fething Primarch up... what? I don't care if they're watching Die Hard, find that DVD! And just you think about Milo's arsehole while you do it!"

"Bad news, my Lord?" Dick said drily.

Calgar started whining like a lost puppy. An alpha-level sulk was coming.

(To be continued...)

Aquarius

During the first portion of the course, each team kept to its own chute. The chutes eventually opened onto a wide track where the race became a violent free-for-all. Milo didn't need genhanced eyesight to see the first obstacle on that track was a huge lake with a jump in front of it. The other three teams cleared the lake easily with the help of their rocket boosters.

"Er, sir," Milo said.

"Feth off," said Calgar.

"My Lord," Dick said, "our journey is about to take an aquatic turn."

"What are you moaning about you fething -" Calgar pushed Derrick down so he could see properly. "Merry Fethmas, tilt it! Tilt it!"

They all leaned to one side, hoping they could bring the sledge to a sliding halt. Instead, it swung in a 180-degree arc so Milo was at the back and Calgar was at the front.

"AAAAARGH!" yelled the Spiritual Liege as they flew backwards off the jump and crashed into the lake arse-first. His massive bulk flipped the sledge so everyone else was launched from it like self-righteous Christmas puddings from a seasonal trebuchet.

Milo became the centre of a snowball the size of a Knight Errant. It took all day to dig him out, although it would only have taken half an hour if the rescue workers didn't regard him as the Wesley Crusher of 40K.

Dick landed on his face and slid for a mile, ploughing enough snow to create a tower that would take three thousand years to melt and became known as Dick's Massif.

Derrick had enough momentum, and his refractor field provided sufficient bounce, for him to finish the course without needing a sledge. He set a new record time of 3 minutes and 45 seconds, down from the previous record of 18 minutes set by a visiting Black Templar squad in M36. His time was intitally rescinded for "conduct becoming of an Ultramarine": it was considered the height of impropriety to finish a sledge race on your shoulders with your legs in the air while the rest of your team were 2000 miles behind you, not to mention crossing the finish line holding up two middle fingers and yelling "Christmas is here, bitches!" as you knock the waiting crowd down like skittles.

Unfortunately Derrick's behaviour then deteriorated. All records of the incident had to be hidden behind a veil of utmost secrecy "to protect the honour and dignity of the Ultramarine Chapter and its allies". This ironically meant that he could not be defrocked or disqualified, and his time could not therefore be rescinded, since doing so would require public reference to the sealed records. Derrick's only chastisement was being barred from the Boxing Day service at the Battle Sister Fortress-Convent. So in many ways, he is the winner of this tale.

Many a Crusade would later be launched by the anguished Black Templars; they had not attended the Nutcase Death Run for two millennia since they believed their best time to be unassailable, and they would never be able to shave 14 minutes and 16 seconds off it without being excommunicated.

=|U|=

Even as Calgar was being fished out of the water, the Gift Bearers had a distant lead. Their sledge was passing the ruins of Londenistan. Formerly a rich and prosperous district, it had opened itself to refugees from across the Imperium without checks of any kind, inevitably meaning that Chaos cults had taken root. The region had been bombarded from orbit and now no-one was allowed to mention it in case doing so "caused offence".

"Exellency," said Brother Syster from the front of the sledge, "a polar bear is wandering on the track."

"Who gives a feth, run it over!" Amalgama's eyesight was not as sharp as his younger kin's, but as they drew nearer, what looked like a giant snowball resolved into the terrifying shape of a fifty-foot monstrosity looking at them and licking its lips.

A warrior's gust escaped from special vents built into Amalgama's power-trousers. The Gift Bearers hit the bear at a speed beyond reckoning. The resulting mushroom cloud could be seen from orbit.

The Stripes and Battle Sisters raced through the debris, sledges bashing together as they sought to force each other off the course. Neither team knew that Derrick's impressive shoulder slide had already beaten them, since Bob Whitesmile was now too drunk to commentate. Atonal music came from the Sister's vehicle.

"Play, young shishter, play for our shertain victory!" Sister Superior Ultricia said as her team headed for second place.

(To be continued...)

Journey's End

Team Fat Bastard's remaining members regrouped at the other side of the water and had a siege dreadnought set them off with a push. Dick suggested that there was no point in doing this since it was now the middle of the night and the crowd had gone home, but Calgar once again pointed at him and called him a humbug, exhorting Milo to do the same. They reached the Ice Fields of Tertius Quintus on the edge of the dreaded Abnett Zone, a place where canon no longer applied. Calgar, Dick and Milo stopped and got out of their sledge. Not the way to win a sledge race, you might think, but Dick was concerned about the thickness of the ice.

"I'm concerned about the thickness of the ice," he said.

"It looks strong as feth." Calgar stomped his ponderous bulk onto the ice and began to tapdance.

"Don't do that, my Lord!" exclaimed Dick.

"Hark at him," Calgar said to Milo as cracks spread under his feet. "Thinks the Ultramarines are run by the man called Number Two. I'll show you a number TWURGH!"

Lord Calgar disappeared through a hole of his own creation. He bobbed back up like one of those turds that won't be flushed, a blueberry lollipop whose expression exactly resembled Jack Nicholson's at the end of The Shining. Dick hauled him out and took unadmitted delight in slapping his face. Ice shattered with the impact. Calgar's teeth began chattering hard enough to chip enamel.

"Sir, are you all right?" said Dick. There was no response. "We need to get that wet flannel he calls a brain working again. Sir, what's your mother's name?"

"D-D-D-D-D-D-D-Duh-Duh-Duh-Duh-Dave," said Calgar.

"Slap him again," said Milo.

"I can't, that was the right answer."

"Oh feth, just stick him in the sledge and let's go!"

"Milo, it's time we faced the inevitable. The average time for a team to complete this course is twenty minutes. We've been out for..." – Dick glanced at his Timex wrist chron – "eight and a half hours. It's safe to say the champagne's gone."

"Thank the Emperor for that," Milo said. "Come on, we'd better find Home Alone 2 before Flat-Head's artillery finds my bumhole."

The Home Alone 2 DVD case was finally found at a starport. The case was empty except for a small note saying "Keep the box ya filthy animal!"

If you've ever seen a big baby screw its face up for a tantrum, you can well imagine how Calgar looked in that moment.

"Don't worry sir," Milo said brightly, "we've still got Home Alone 3! That's the same thing isn't it?"

Calgar's scream of agony roiled through the Warp, bolstering Slaanesh by at least 36%.

=|U|=

It was 8pm on Christmas Eve. Calgar and Dick sat in the Chapter Master's personal quarters in front of a log fire. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas by Kenny G should have been playing, but they couldn't afford the rights, so they had to put up with Milo playing The Christmas Song (yes, it is actually called that) on his fething pipes. Calgar was wrapped in a blanket with a thermometer poking out of his mouth.

"Gentle readers," said Dick, "thank you for enjoying this year's Christmas Special."

"How could anyone enjoy this load of crap?" said Calgar.

"Now now sir. This year, we undertook an event that we hadn't prepared for and nearly lost our lives, not to mention our reputation. Have you learned anything, my Lord?"

"No," said Calgar. "Was I supposed to?"

"And there it is," said Dick.

Apothecary Mender burst in.

"There you are you fething prat!" he yelled at Calgar. "You're supposed to be in the apothecarion. Why have you got that thing in your mouth? That's not where I've been putting it."

Calgar's eyes went to the thermometer. Dick's cheeks bulged with suppressed vomit.

"Well in the original draft Dick was supposed to have the last word," Mender said to you lot, "but since he's now stricken with horror, the duty is mine for once: have a wonderful Christmas and a fething brilliant New Year!"

MERRY CHRISTMAS ONE AND ALL FROM NOPOET AND MARNEUS CALGAR'S BARMY ARMY!